Children of the Sun and Moon
by Sano S. Sagara
Summary: When the Sun and Moon were born, so too were born their angels. Born to walk the Earth and find each other, born to need each other. John H. Watson, Child of the Sun. Sherlock Holmes, Child of the Moon. An orbit was restored, a story set in motion. Two halves started to become a whole, and wings unfurled in the dark light of day that evening.
1. Children of the Sun and Moon

Children of the Sun and Moon

Long ago, the Sun was born. A beautiful birth full of condensing and exploding _everything_. A nebula of gases and elements swirled and spun until its gravity pulled it into the disk forming the burning center to our galaxy. The poetic dance of elements and fission resulted in a giant and caustic environment, giving of life and giving of pain. Chaotic, never still, never stopping, lashing out in glorious screaming ropes of plasma to scorch the cold silence of space.

The Moon was also born. A gigantic collision with the Earth thrust it into being. Violence and chance created the still and watchful angel in our night sky. Calm, the moon governs the tides with a steady hand. It doesn't waver. Protecting, even when born in such chaos and destruction.

Upon the Earth there has always been a Child of each the Sun and the Moon; they have been there since the beginning, and will be there till the end. One is violent, and rushes across their life. One is calm and will protect the ones they love. One is bright and shining, one is dark. One shines with their own light, one is only appreciated in the reflection of the other.

They may be born miles from each other, on different continents or just down the street from one another. They may be born in the same instance, other times one will come into the world just as the other has left it. They are the two halves to one whole. They need each other. They must find each other. One cannot exist in full without the other.

But the world is not fair, the world is not always right. They may live entire lives living next to each other and never talk, never catch the other's eye, never meet. One may die and let the other live and wither alone. One may be taken by someone else and push the other back.

They may be drawn together too close, too fast, and break upon each other.

They are angels. They walk the Earth as the Children of our Sun and Moon, drawn by their natures to their destiny. They may never know, if they never meet.

But that first look, that first meeting of eyes, and they become aware. A life's worth of veils are drawn back and wings unfurl. The Child of the Sun will have found their precious thing to protect. The Child of the Moon will have found the source of their own Light.

They will have found each other and nothing in the heavens or on Earth will be able to stop them.

The Sun is our ego, it gives us purpose in life, gives us direction. It is our adult, the Sun is what squashes the inner child. The Sun is our governor, our basic identity and an entity of self-realization for not only itself but for others.

The Sun is what we are learning to be, what we are becoming. It is an agent of change and growth. It is the here, the now, what will become our future. No matter what you hope to become, what you dream and wish and yearn to be, what you ARE will always be the Sun. The Sun is purposeful, directed, proud, and creative…

The question "who are you" is answered with the Sun.

The Moon is our unconscious, our deepest habits, our desires held closest to our bones. The Moon is reactionary, taking the situation in reflection and going from our instincts, spontaneous and often childish. It is our inner child.

The Moon is how we protect ourselves. It mediates our inner world and the outer world. It can be irrational, it can be impulsive. Habits and prejudices are ruled by the Moon. The Sun may overrule and drown out these urges, but the Moon creates them, basks in them, and is what causes them.

When you know what you mean, but can't say it-this is our Moon knowing and our Sun unable to articulate. The Moon rules our thoughts that lie so deep and close to our bones that even tears cannot touch them.

The wordless ecstasy, the mute sorrow, the secret dream, the esoteric picture of yourself that you can't get across to the world, or which the world doesn't comprehend or value - these are the products of the Moon.*

When you are misunderstood, the Moon feels betrayed; when you are sure you should do something, but can't understand how, it is the Moon that wants to act but can't do it. Words that slip out are the thoughts of the Moon. Art is the Moon.

The Moon is the past. The Moon is inarticulable emotion. The Moon is moody, restless, inconsolable, irrational.

The question "who is the real you" is answered by the Moon.

One day, the Child of the Sun was born. Five years later, the Child of the Moon.

The Child of the Sun went to War. The Child of the Moon hid.

The Child of the Sun was injured, broken and beaten, but would not give up. The Child of the Moon was despised, feared and rejected, but railed against.

The Child of the Sun returned to search for a Home. The Child of the Moon discovered their home was no such thing.

The Child of the Sun searched for something to save and be saved by. The Child of the Moon searched for a champion and a companion.

The Child of the Sun walked into a cold and sterile lab. The Child of the Moon could see for the first time.

John H. Watson, Child of the Sun.

Sherlock Holmes, Child of the Moon.

An orbit was restored, a story set in motion. Two halves started to become a whole, and wings unfurled in the dark light of day that evening.

**A/N- So, what do you guys think? This is actually an adapted short story of mine that while working on it I realized that John and Sherlock fit my angels. So I'm rewriting it to fit the fandom. If anyone wants to read the unaltered version... I suppose you can ask me to share it :3**


	2. John's Vertigo

**Tell me what you all think ^_^. **

* * *

_'Wings_,_'_

John Watson could feel _something_ unfurl behind him. His shoulders itched, even the deadened skin of his scar, and he fought the urge to scratch. He could feel the phantom limbs spreading out from his scapulae, muscles that had long been unused quivering as they tugged joints and ligaments. It reminded him of his physical therapy courses, his leg and shoulder being extended involuntarily and creaking in weary protest. It pulled at his chest, spreading over his sternum and making his collarbones tingle.

_'Wings_,_'_

Feathers flared and settled into place. Primary feathers relaxing underneath coverts, ruffling then smoothing into a warm and solid sensation behind him.

_'I have wings_,_'_ John stood straighter, fascinated. He'd known that people could imagine phantom appendages, feel as though a missing limb was still there or imagine that they possessed something new, but this was different. He knew without a doubt that sprouting from his back, anchored to his bones and muscles, was a pair of wings long and impressive. He let his eyes flutter shut, savoring the feeling of power and warmth emanating from inside him, but still not wanting to look back and destroy the illusion. What had caused this strange flight of fantasy?

Looking forward once again, John studied the raven haired man crouched over the microscope at the lab bench across the way. The angular cheekbones, the unruly dark curls that quivered with each breath of air in the room. It was like he had been sculpted to sit before that microscope, sculpted to become the exact focal point of John Watson's life in that instant.

Mike Stanford was talking. John snapped back to attention so quickly he could almost feel the whiplash. What?

Laughter, "Bit different than from my day," The wings furled and flexed. Did he feel taller? God, Mike was talking again, what did he say? Doesn't matter, laughing, was a joke. Laugh with him.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine,"

John stuttered to a halt. It was such a voice, such a goddamn voice. Cool and smoldering at the same time, it sounded like liquid sin to his ears. John felt his entire body react, felt the wings spread behind him, responding eagerly to that voice like a desert flower to the rain. The world seemed to shift. Colors were suddenly brighter, John could smell formaldehyde and blood and the harsh chemicals in the room. He could even smell the water the man was using as a suspension liquid on his slide.

He had to make eye contact, had to get that man to look up and notice him like he had. Would he feel the same bolt of lightning? Would he notice the wings that Mike wasn't?

"Er, here… use mine,"

There.

Vertigo.

Those blue eyes, those terrible heterochromatic eyes looking at him so appraisingly; like he'd just become something of worth. A storm swirled in those eyes and leaked out to catch John up like a leaf in a hurricane. He could feel the wind, feel the draw. He could feel the Earth tilt on its axis and whirl, feel the pull of the Moon on the planet. In one small corner of John's mind, the only part that hadn't just been obliterated and cobbled back together, he thought that he had always known the world was spinning, moving through space at an angle and orbiting the Sun. Now he could _feel it_.

And with those eyes on him, oh god, the entire solar system orbited John now.

"Oh, thank you," The first words that man said to him were so ordinary.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" The second split his world apart even more and solidified the aching need to be near him. John was trapped by eyes the color of mixing ocean currents and cheekbones that could be a weapon. Trapped by a voice that sounded like violin strings in his heart.

"Sorry?" Sorry for taking so long to get here.

"Which one was it-Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan. How did you know?" Can you feel it too?

_'No. No no, come back to me. Answer me damnit. Can you feel the wings too? Can you feel the spin of the planet, can you feel the air churning around us? Answer me how you knew!'_

"How do you feel about the violin?"

"I'm sorry, what?" John loved it. Violins were filling the air right then, and somehow John knew it was the sound of their beings resonating together, playing each other. It was a harsh tune, filled with a dangerous vibrato that made the adrenaline sing in John's veins. _Danger_ it said, _come dance with my danger_.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking and sometime I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other,"

To Mike, "You told him about me?" Please say no.

"Not a word,"

"Then who said anything about flatmates?" _'Say something about the feeling, the electricity. I know you, I know you! Tell me how you knew me!'_

The explanation was lost on John, lost to the suddenly visible eddies and curls of smoke on the air. John could see without moving his eyes, could see the vibrations of each object however still in the air around them. The man's voice was pouring out of his mouth like a blooming nebula of nascent stars, and John was riveted. The world was spinning apart at the seams, but it was glorious.

"We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting, I don't even know your name," _'Please tell me your name,'_ John knew that just that much would set him back on his feet, keep him from flying off the ground and into space to rejoin his suddenly far flung mind.

"I know you're an Army doctor, and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. You've got a brother worried about you, but you won't go to him for help, because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife, and I know your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think? The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon,"

John's world clicked back into place, but it wasn't his world anymore. It wasn't just the world anymore. John felt the light leak from a tiny corner of his heart that he never knew existed until he was brimming, burning, flaring. He could still see the world's tiny movements, feel it all coalescing around him. He'd never felt the centre of the universe before, never even thought of it. But now he knew the truth of his life.

And he knew one more truth.

He and Sherlock Holmes… They were something bigger.


	3. Sherlock's Epiphany

Chapter Three

Sherlock braced himself against the other side of the door. What was happening to him? His breath, his heart, far too fast. He was hyperventilating. He could _see_.

Not normal things like the scuff marks on the Doctor's phone or that his limp was psychosomatic, no but those were still there. He could… _See_. There were brilliant points of light filtering through the air currents around him. He could see his own path, outlined in a celestial sparkle of light. He raised his hand, wiggling his fingers and watching in fascination as the air molded itself around them, smoky tendrils curling themselves away.

It couldn't be drugs, he was clean. Had been for weeks. And not the placating 'clean' he presented for Lestrade or Mycroft, but a genuine state of pure sobriety. Then how was he able to see the gorgeous swirl of colors in the shafts of light coming through the window pane? How was he able to –feel- the tug of the moon on his blood, how could he hear the whispers of a million hearts filtering through to his ears? He tried a step forward and stumbled, gasping as a burn spread over his shoulders.

'_What on Earth?'_

Sherlock spun, slapping his hands at his shoulders, trying to feel what was causing the unbearable pressure drilling against his back. It crackled, itched. It felt like something was bursting free from layers of gauze, ripping free from his shoulder blades. He couldn't take it, couldn't breathe. Then…

"Wings…" Sherlock crouched, almost collapsed onto the cold ground and he could have sworn feathers were curling around his body. He was shadowed, eclipsed, a protective layer of ice cold _something_ coursed above him and rippled in the air like the shadow of heat over blacktop. He had wings? It was impossible. He was human, he couldn't have wings. But they were there.

Sherlock straightened and held his head high, feeling his curls bounce over the feathered carpometa-carpus. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the tendons stretch as the humerus extended, primaries and secondaries fanning out. The light passing through the phantom wings was dappled, purple, it wavered and shivered as air currents tumbled through feathers.

A glittering droplet of water on the window glass caught his eye. Suddenly he saw more than he had ever realized. It swayed, pulsed. Electricity sparked within it, and Sherlock was drawn closer, watching as it surged closer to him then flattened back to normal. Movements so tiny, so precise, he knew that no one else would be able to see it.

Sherlock felt the Earth beneath his feet shift, like someone was tugging the rug out from underneath him. It all dragged him back into the lab, where John Watson was.

But that was all impossible.

He was sleep deprived. It had been six days since he'd slept properly, and he wasn't sure when he'd last eaten more than toast. Hallucinations due to poor nutrition and insomnia. That was it.

He straightened his shirt and jacket, feeling oddly queasy about the wings-not-real-wings hanging from his shoulder blades. The more he convinced himself that this was all an elaborate sensory hallucination, the more those wings began to droop until he was convinced that the primary feathers were sweeping the floor as he took a tentative step forward. He had to get out of the lab, out of the hospital.

Away from John Watson.

…For now.

* * *

Sherlock wasn't sure what had made him invite Watson to be his flatmate, but it certainly hadn't been the frightening spark of _something_ that had drawn him to the tiny golden man. But he had and now the result of his reckless invitation was standing beside him at the door to 221B Baker Street.

He was still hallucinating. There were rings of light palpating around Watson's body, leaving afterimages in the air along the street as they walked. Sherlock could almost swear he saw the breeze bend around something behind Watson, flowing as if worked against by a gigantic fan.

'_Or wings…'_

Sherlock frowned and banished the thought that rose unbidden in his mind. It was ludicrous. John Watson did not have wings.

And neither did he.

But still, as they stood on the doorstep, and Sherlock felt pleasure at Watson's incredulous expression, his shoulders itched and the shadows around him deepened as the phantom limbs on his back lifted and spread-like he was a raven gloating over praise. Luckily Mrs. Hudson appeared and for a brief second the world slammed back to dull and uninteresting and the wings disappeared.

AS Sherlock ascends the stairs he becomes irritated. He TOLD the man that his limp was psychosomatic; why was he insisting on still using that damnable cane? He would never be able to keep up chasing criminals hobbling along like that.

'_What? Keep up?'_ Sherlock isn't used to his brain leaping away from him like that. He has frequent bouts of mental genius that others seldom can follow, but to have a pure errant thought like that. Moreso, to look at another person and have his mind insist that their companionship would be pleasurable…

'_When will I go back to normal?' _

"Soon as we get all this rubbish cleared out," Watson is looking about the room with a look of mild interest, the way one views yard sales in a strange neighborhood. For some reason…

It hurts.

Sherlock feels himself droop and the world darken again as he looks across the room. This is his space, his things… But he wants to bring Watson inside so badly, and he doesn't even know why, but already he's put the older man off.

He shuffles some papers together, throwing a few folders into an empty box, and then stabs some old letters from Mycroft onto the mantelpiece, thinking that his _skull_ never makes him pick up after himself.

Another sharp stab of sadness that starts in his heart and infuriatingly radiates to his back and those NOT REAL wings.

"Well, I say friend…" A breath, '_I want you to be my friend,'_

In the panic that thought creates Sherlock misses whatever Mrs. Hudson said to make Watson uncomfortable. He doesn't need friends, for god's sake, he hasn't had friends since primary school. Sherlock turns, eyes flashing and entire being bristling, fully intending to send Doctor John Watson back out and away from him just so his presence would stop upsetting Sherlock's world when he simply… sees the man.

Standing there, small and unassuming, but at parade rest and exuding like a pheromone the sense of undeniable strength. Watson is a soldier, and even here in this cluttered apartment where statistically he was unlikely to be attacked, he stands at the ready. Then Watson moves and the spell is broken, but Sherlock can no longer even remember why he wanted to send the man away.

As John sits in one of the recliners, fitting so perfectly Sherlock wonders if he hadn't bought the second one specifically for this Army Doctor, Sherlock makes a pointed effort to tidy another area.

"I looked you up on the internet last night,"

Sherlock's heart thumped and restarted and he covered the small tremor by deftly placing the papers back down, "Anything interesting?"

"Found your website, The Science of Deduction,"

Pride slams through Sherlock only to be squelched by the look on Watson's face. He feels like a puppy that was scolded for bringing something nasty into the house as a gift, and he has another stab of anger at the emotions this tiny man makes him feel so easily.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb,"

'_Mathematical design with a predication toward inside jokes. Callouses from toggling the radio communication button on the joystick of the aircraft,'_

"Yes; and I can read your military career in your face and on your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone," Caustic. Haughty. Watson is throwing him off, he has to regain his footing. But all he wants to do is fly.

"How?"

Sherlock smiles and turns to the window as he hears a car pull up, idly answering Mrs. Hudson as she makes small talk. Perfect, a distraction, a way to get away from the cloying gravitational pull of Watson.

"Where?"

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens," Lestrade isn't lighting up like Watson. Sherlock can see the man's ill spent night in the wrinkles on his clothing, and he can see that whatever surprise this case has thrown at the D.I. has rattled him enough to come for Sherlock despite still being angry over the text messages. But he can't _see_ him like he sees Watson. There are no sparks of electricity in Lestrade's hair, nor does the man's skin ripple like he's filled with fire. A quick glance at Mrs. Hudson confirms that yes, only Watson is pulsing like a star. It's like the world is leeching its color into him. No, that's not right either; Watson is just overshadowing everything else, throwing out a sharp and glaring light onto the world that makes all others pale.

"It's Anderson,"

"Anderson won't work with me,"

'_I need an assistant…' _One with eagle eyes and power settling around him like a cloak. No, he can't ask Watson to come with him. Just look at the way he was staring. Horrified by his excitement. Watson would think he was a monster. Sherlock raced down the stairs, determined to take his mind off the wings trailing behind him but with each step the world feels colder. It's as though he was running into the night away from a bonfire. By the bottom of the steps Sherlock can barely see anything at all.

'_I need an assistant.'_

"You're a doctor. In fact you're an Army Doctor,"

"Yes," Watson rises and faces Sherlock, flooding his world with fire. Sherlock looks into those deep and level eyes, reading things there that he can't possibly know.

"Any good?"

Pride, "Very good,"

"Seen a lot of injuries then; violent deaths,"

Oh god he can see them. Mortars and gunfire. Not like his world, nothing like his world.

"Yes,"

"Bit of trouble too, I bet," He's breathless at the glory he sees in Watson's eyes. And at the quiet ferocity of his answer.

"Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much," was Watson daring Sherlock? There was challenge there. Desperation, excitement.

"Want to see some more?"

"Oh god yes," It was like a flood of ice cold water reawakening something deep inside Sherlock's heart. It burned and fizzed and exploded, filling his body with a reaction that he couldn't name. He felt like a block of dry ice held to a flame, explosive rather than melting. God, the wings were real. Something was happening that he couldn't explain.

As the two raced down the stairs and frantically hailed a cabbie, Sherlock realized that he didn't care. He would find out soon enough if Watson stayed with him.

They were going to be something great.


	4. The Call to War

Chapter Three

John stared at Sherlock, feeling the questions bubble to his lips,

'_Do you feel them too? Please say you can feel the wings… Did you see how you changed, going from dark to such a cold light? Could you feel the tremor that shook me to my core when we met eyes?'_

"Okay, you've got questions,"

"Yeah, where are we going?"

"Crime scene. Next?"

"Who are you? What do you do?" John clenched his fists on his knees. _'What ARE you? What are you doing to me?' _He would do anything to find out just why he was drawn to this dark, icy man who leaped for joy at the prospect of death.

"What do you think?"

"…I'd say private detective…"

"But…?"

"The police don't go to private detectives,"

"I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world-I invented the job," There was such a haughty pride in Sherlock's voice that John was struck with a surge of protectiveness and… fond sentiment.

"What does that mean?" indulgence flowed through John's soul.

"It means when the when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me,"

"The police don't consult amateurs," It was like he had physically attacked the taller man. John watched, eyes slowly opening wider in bemused shock at the utterly juvenile display of intellect that burst forth. But even more he watched the air. Bent and curved by Sherlock's lips, the air between them in the cab became electrified with midnight blue sparks and the silvered eddies of words. He almost missed the rapid fire explanation he was so astounded by the effect Sherlock was having on John's he was so astounded by the effect Sherlock was having on John's world.

As the cab sped through the night Sherlock's voice created pathways between people and things. John, for an instant at the stoplight, could clearly see how one man's misaligned coat buttons and askew hat revealed that he was stumbling away from not a drunken night at the bar, but away from the destruction of his marriage from finding his wife in bed with the poolboy. He saw that a precariously perched sign in the window of a shop would come crashing to the ground in the next big storm, bludgeoning whoever happened to be in the alleyway at the time and leaving a wound that would baffle the police for its similarity to an axe before being cast into the storm drain by the rain.

"That was… amazing,"

_Of course it's amazing. _John saw it in Sherlock's eyes; they were the eyes of some wise, sage beast. One who saw but didn't necessarily care. John knew that Sherlock could see things that he would never be able to, because to him a scratch was a scratch. Coincidences existed. Accidents happened.

Accidents always happen… John had rubbed at his knee while Sherlock explained to him just how obvious it was that a soldier returned home on injury with a psychosomatic limps would have a therapist. His leg actually didn't hurt that much, sitting there next to Sherlock's dark and solemnly folded form. The man sat like a gargoyle, proud and perfectly arranged in his seat. It was almost like he was showing off for him, which was a ludicrous idea and John banished it immediately. A positively obscene glee flowed across Sherlock's face,

"Do you think so?"

"Of course. It was extraordinary. Quite extraordinary,"

"That's not what people normally say,"

John inclined his head, "What do people normally say?" How can they not just stand in awe of this angel walking through their lives? How can't they hang on Sherlock's words, words that tie around you like quicksilver cables; thin like a spider's web and the color of moonglow and oh so secure around John's heart.

_'Heart?' _John shook himself mentally, it wasn't his heart that Sherlock's words were twining around… was it?

Warmth, irritating warmth that felt like it was annoyed with him-the hand of an exasperated caregiver-settled over his back and rippled along his body till he began to grin, helpless against the happiness.

"'Piss off'," They grin at each other, John feeling the warmth at his back pulse in approval… and drag against a cool force emanating from the other side of the cab. It was like he waved his fire-warmed hand toward a brick of ice. He toyed with the feeling the rest of the cab ride, testing it, pushing toward Sherlock with his mind just enough to feel that welcoming coolness push back.

As they walked toward the crime scene John enjoyed the sensation of height his imaginary wings gave him. He felt tall, important, more like he had in the Army when he was the highest ranking officer in an area. He felt like he had wings trailing behind him, glowing and fiery, and he arched them in his mind, feeling the ghosts of them flex against his back and point skyward. He imagined his feathers… gold feathers-that sounds right, he imagined his feathers ruffling with self-satisfied pleasure at Sherlock's anger over Harry being his _sister_. It was juvenile on his part, to take so much liking at Sherlock's error, so he tried to get them back on track.

"No, seriously, what am I doing here?"

"Hello Freak," It was like someone had _shot_ John. _Again_. He was not a stranger to cold rage, but this was different. It was like he'd suddenly been filled with lava that seethed at the very sight of that woman with the beautiful head of hair. He wanted to… to… to _smite_ her, whatever the hell that meant. Every single fiber of his being wanted to jump at her in defense of Sherlock, and with each passing word from Sherlock's gritted teeth and her obnoxiously superior smirk he boiled hotter.

"Would it be better if I just waited and…" _'Set this Donovan woman straight?'_

"No," John followed Sherlock under the tape, feeling like that by crossing under that thin, delicate membrane of police defiance, he was being called into a different world. It certainly was different to him, to follow so willingly into the purple haze of confusion and blindness that was the unknown; but he'd do anything to wipe the sneer from Donovan's lovely face.

As John walked forward enveloped in the feather light and almost black ring of Sherlock's presence another man exited the building wearing coroner's crime scene scrubs. Sherlock stiffens and the feeling of enclosure surrounding John squeezes too. It's like Sherlock is trying to protect John from the barbs of these police officers, when all John wants to do is rise and erupt in defense of his consulting detective.

His? The sudden and dangerous possessive feeling stalls John enough so that they're clear inside and talking to DI Lestrade again before he realizes that Sherlock hasn't donned the coveralls. Sherlock is hunched over the body like a raven inspecting something shiny. All of the man's impressive attention is trained on the poor woman in blinding pink, and John can see it.

There's a cloud swirling around the body, like moths circling a flame or dust being swept up by the swirl of heavy skirts. He can see Sherlock's eyes flickering, dancing, his mind grasping tiny things and stringing them together. By the time Sherlock replaces the woman's ring, John can see the electricity snaking through the air like a roadmap and he knows Sherlock's noticed something and broken the mystery. It was like Sherlock's thoughts were mapped upon the air in front of him, aligned like a hologram from some futuristic scifi movie.

John moves closer with Lestrade's permission, and his knee screams as he kneels next to the dead woman. He doesn't know what he could possibly offer to Sherlock that the man hadn't already seen in that brilliant lightshow from a few second ago, but he'll do his level best. The cloud is still there, still animated and prodded by Sherlock's line of sight, but there's now a layer of golden light just under it, sticking close to the body. John watches it, leaning closer to inspect the pearlescent sheen. He can taste something in his mouth, and when he leans closer he can smell vomit. Years of medical training is highlighted but this gold wash, and everything he's been trained to look for stands out in eyesmarting brightness. He feels the woman's hand for good measure, wanting to trust his mind and not this trick of the light, but everything clicks into place.

"Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure; possibly drugs," Why does he say drugs? This woman doesn't look like any coked out hoodlum that he's ever seen. She doesn't even look like she could take a hit of marijuana. Drugs shouldn't have even come to mind, but the word is there, gleaming like a new minted coin and he feels Sherlock smile inwardly at his suggestion.

John struggles back to his feet, feeling oddly proud that the Detective was happy with his professional, medical opinion, but he felt that happiness sour as Sherlock had to painstakingly explain his throught process to Lestrade. When Sherlock finished all John could muster was a heartfelt and awed,

"That's brilliant!"

Sherlock's head snapped around and John felt the cool presence the man exuded slam back into his own bubble of space, like his voice had brought Sherlock back to earth.

"Sorry," He hadn't meant to disrupt that dazzling thought process. In fact, John was sure he could watch it all day and never tire.

"Cardiff?" Lestrade looked less amazed by the deductions, but none the less impressed.

"It's obvious, isn't it?" Sherlock looked at John.

"It's not obvious to me," John felt his wings droop admitting it.

Another whirlwind explanation left John dazzled,

"That's fantastic!"

"You do know you do that aloud?"

"Sorry… I'll shut up," John was embarrassed being the subject of so much scrutiny in that gaze. It was like Sherlock was searching for a hidden motive behind John's praise, looking for a crack. It felt like a bucket of sea water poured over his head only to slick away from his skin by some invisible force. A tiny smile quirked Sherlock's lips as he found no ulterior meanings,

"No, it's… fine,"

Then the suitcase. Sherlock lifted himself to his full height, interest spiked so high that he was positively vibrating at the edges. Quick as a flash the man was at the door, then leaning over the railing to scream to the other police officers,

"Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?"

"Sherlock! There was no case!" Lestrade fumes, irritated that Sherlock is apparently obsession over something unimportant.

John skitters after Lestrade, stumbling a bit as he tries to keep up with Sherlock's deductions.

"We've got ourselves a serial killer. I _love_ those. There's always something to look forward to,"

"Why are you saying that?" Lestrade sounds like he's repeating a familiar and loosing argument, and John can barely look at the harsh light bouncing up the stairs from Sherlock's glee. If John really believed he had wings, he would have leaped over the railing to follow the detective and his radiant mind.

John tried to slow Sherlock down, his leg making him fall behind and he was terrified of falling behind. He never wanted to fall behind again, he wanted to be next to Sherlock watching as the man solved mystery after mystery.

"She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there,"

The utter detail that Sherlock's mind picked up was staggering to John. He had looked at the woman, and had seen a normal, if nauseatingly poshly dressed lady. For some reason he was able to see the health defects she carried, like her high cholesterol and the arthritis beginning in her knees, but he was certain he'd never have been able to see that she was a serial adulterer from her ever loving _ring_.

"Oh."

The light was cold and brilliant coming up the stairs.

"Oh!"

"Sherlock?"

John has a fleeting moment of joy as Sherlock locks eyes with him; he can feel that Sherlock is about to ask him to follow again, that Sherlock needs his help. John is ready to reply and his chest is full with pride and an emotion he hasn't felt since the war when he was saving peoples' lives under heavy fire. He's _needed_ and it feels like his soul is opening back up under the cool rain of a midnight storm. The terrible scorch on his mind left behind by Afghanistan is being washed away by Sherlock's pull.

Until,

"PINK!"

And just like that he's gone. John stumbles, holding onto the railing and blinking owlishly into the suddenly dark stairwell. He's just gone. Disappeared like the moon behind a winter storm cloud. John looks around himself. He's been forgotten, again. Just like coming home from the war. He's been cast aside after his use was up and it fucking _hurt_. Feeling stupid for letting himself think _Sherlock_ of all people would need boring old him in his life other than to make rent, John hobbled down the stairs. His leg screamed from the effort each step he went and the clearer it became that Sherlock had truly left him behind.

Left him behind in a part of London he didn't know.

Even the other police officers ignore him, shunting him to the side in their haste to follow Lestrade's orders. The light outside makes him blink, but even the sun makes him feel more alone and disused. Its warmth is a lie, diffused through the pollution of London and the smog that follows everyone in the damn city. John wanted Afghanistan back. The air may have been filled with gunpowder and symtex but at least the sun was strong and the people were real there.

"He's gone,"

It was Donovan, and despite Sherlock's clear dismissal of him John was still mildly offended by her presence and didn't like the look of knowing and haughty pity on her lovely face.

"Who, Sherlock Holmes?" Even the man's name had lost some of its flavor, reminding him instead that of course no-one would want a psychologically broken ex-army doctor for a companion.

"Yeah, he just took off. He does that,"

"Is he coming back?"

"Didn't look like it,"

"Right," Right. Of course the genius would abandon him here. He was useless after having made Sherlock's point.

"Sorry, where am I?" and now he was reduced to asking for directions… a child left in the amusement park looking for home.

"Brixton,"

"Right, do you know where I could hail a cab? It's just… er, well, my leg," damn his leg…

"Er…" Even this woman who looks so scornfully at Sherlock can muster nothing but an awkward face and the barest of polite help for John, "Try the main road,"

"Thanks,"

"But you're not his friend,"

John stopped cold and turns to look back at the peculiar seargent.

"He doesn't _have_ friends. So who _are _you?"

"I'm…" _I thought I was at least useful…_ "I'm nobody, I just met him,"

"Okay, but of advice then: Stay away from that guy,"

"Why?" even as his soul is cooling, John can muster a bit of indignation on Sherlock's behalf against such hostility.

"You know why he's here? He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes'll be the one that put it there,"

A disturbing chill raced through John, bristling the feathers on wings that seemed to rematerialize behind him,

"Why would he do that?"

"Because he's a psychopath. And psychopaths get bored," It was in this woman's callous shrug that John felt his ire reignite. Sherlock _was_ important. And as for leaving them around a body of his doing… That queer shudder didn't feel like Sherlock was a murderer. It felt more protective. And John was nothing without his mission.

"Stay away from Sherlock Holmes!" She called back to him, not noticing the resolve steel in his eyes.

He would not heed the woman's advice, heartfelt though caustic it may be. He was here to protect Sherlock Holmes. And he was fine with that mission. He was going to protect that cool collection of chaos wrapped in deep eyes and a blue scarf, or he was going to die doing it.

John limped down toward the main road, fully intending to catch a taxi back to the flat and figure out where Sherlock had gone. For the first time in weeks his side itched where his sidearm holster should have been. His fingers tensed like he was wearing armor and slogging through the lines toward his men. His blood raced and his resolve was strong.

The first phone ringing didn't register much, the second is harder to ignore.

"Hello?"

"There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?"

"Who is this? Who's speaking?" It sounded like one of his old Cos, older, more used to ordering troops than doing the work themselves. But the voice sounded like it was used to being obeyed, and that just raised John's hackles.

"Do you see the camera, Doctor Watson?"

"Yeah, I see it,"

It moved.

The one on the building opposite also turned away, then the higher one to his right. Suddenly the adrenaline was back, and John felt like smiling. This was getting interesting.

"How are you doing this?" A normal man would be scared. _John_ should be scared. But he isn't. He's excited.

"Get in the car Doctor Watson. I _would_ make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you,"

Crystal. John makes a fist and relishes in how alive he feels. So he gets in the car.

_'An empty warehouse of all places? Is this guy serious?'_ John walked through the dank air, feeling his wings spread out behind him like the cape of a Roman general heading into a war meeting. He liked the feeling. It was the same as back in the war where his medkit was a beacon on his back, reminding him that his purpose was of utmost importance and that he couldn't fail. And if this imposing set up of suited man and straight backed chair wasn't leading to a conflict…

"Have a seat, John,"

Even strides. Don't show weakness, "You know, I've got a phone. I mean… very clever and all that, but er… you could just phone me. On my phone," Don't give ground, make sure you present like you're in control.

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place,"

The man motions at the chair again, angling for the position of power, "The leg must be hurting you. Sit down,"

"I don't wanna sit down,"

"You don't seem very afraid,"

_Good._ "You don't seem very frightening," It's not true, the man is terrifying. But John isn't afraid.

"A yes. The bravery of a soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?"

_Was that a bloody reprimand?_ John cannot believe this arrogant sod, and sets his shoulders back farther.

"What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

_There is is…_ "I don't have one. I barely know him. I met him… yesterday," _'Such a short amount of time… and I'm standing unarmed in a bloody warehouse with some crazy suit. For what? Someone who left me in the middle of Brixton without a fare?' _John smirks despite himself as the man comments that they'll be having a happy announcement after a week of crime solving.

"Who are you?"

"An interested party,"

"Interested in Sherlock? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends," at least the man isn't like Donovan or Anderson.

"You've met him. How many friends do you think he has?" It doesn't sound like an insult… sadder, "I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having,"

Why does the man sound so sad and hopeful at the same time?

"And what's that?"

"An enemy."

"An Enemy?"

"In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his _arch_-enemy. He does love to be dramatic," Familiar fondness, and exasperation. But John snorts at that.

"Well, thank God _you're_ above all that,"

Beep.

His phone? Who would be texting _him_?

Baker Street.

Come at once if convenient.

SH.

Those two initials filled John with a sense of such excitement John forgot momentarily that he was engaged in a possibly dangerous dance with a potentially hostile enemy. ARCH-enemy to be exact.

"I hope I'm not distracting you,"

"Not distracting me at all…"

"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?"

Continue it? If he walked away now, he could leave behind the danger of criminals and serial killers and the obnoxious faces of the police. If he left now, he could still find a cheap flat share, maybe with some nice woman who would enjoy quiet nights with a mug of tea. If he left now… he would be giving up the excitement and the wings and the colors and the sensation of the earth hurtling around him. Right now, John was the exact tip of a whirling top, visibly motionless but orchestrating an entire crescendo of life around himself.

"I could be wrong… but I think that's none of your business,"

"It _could_ be,"

"It really couldn't," John felt like he was being interrogated a prom date's father.

When the man reaches into his inside pocket John's entire world goes black and white and he tenses, ready for the gun, but when he pulls out a notebook it's almost a letdown.

"If you _do_ move into, um… two hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way,"

_'Um…?'_ "Why?" The fight was trickling away. And John was almost sad-he'd been looking for a fight, an argument, SOMETHING other than a melodramatic suit attempting to bribe him.

"Because you're not a wealthy man,"

Now John was annoyed. "In exchange for what?"

"Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel… uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to,"

Annoyed and so confused.

"Why?"

"I worry about him. Constantly,"

"But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a… difficult relationship,"

Annoyed, confused, and most bafflingly-_jealous_.

Beep. John's heart leapt into his throat,

If inconvenient, Come anyway.

SH.

"No." Loyalty would always come first. It had come first in the Army, and it would come first now.

"But I havn't mentioned a figure,"

_'And please don't… I don't want to know just how stupid I'm being,'_ his phone is a comfortable weight in his pocket, still warm from his hand and the text is still on the screen. John is wanted, needed. He has someone to protect and this is his first hurtle, "Don't bother,"

"You're very loyal, _very_ quickly,"

"No, I'm not. I'm just not interested,"

That stupid little book again, "'Trust issues' it says here,"

There's a hint of alarm in John's mind. Like a single ice chip evaporating against the nape of his neck, "What's that?"

"Could it be… that you've decided to trust _Sherlock Holmes_ of all people?"

_Don't say it like that, goddamn you. He's not some disease, not a freak. And yes, I do!_

"Who says I trust him?"

"You don't seem the kind to make friends easily,"

Damnit, he'd lost the high ground somehow. It was like this man knew something about both him and Sherlock and was _amused_ that John didn't know it.

"Are we done?"

"You tell me. I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen,"

Time sort of freezes for John. This _infuriating_ man is toying with him.

"My… what?"

"Show me," John stares the man down, knowing that of the bloke wants to play these games, he's very well going to come to him. He gets a smile and the man strolls forward, unperturbed and goes to grab John's hand.

"Don't." But under that level, somewhat disinterested gaze, John folded just once and allowed him to take his hand and examine it.

"Remarkable," It sounds too reverent and John snatches his suddenly too hot hand away.

"What is?"

"Most people blunder round this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. You've seen it already, haven't you?"

It was terrifying, how true this man had guessed.

"What's wrong with my hand?"

"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks its post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service," John barely covers a flinch. It makes him sound broken, worthless.

"Who the HELL are you? How do you know that?" It was different when Sherlock stripped his life bare… this man was stripping his soul to the bone. The cracked… weakened bone…

"You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson… you miss it,"

John meets the man's eyes, uncomfortable but fascinated by the murmur of truth echoing inside his core. The man' words were like stones dropped into the still pool of John's heart. Once the surface tension was broken, the desire, the need for chaos rippled out until it consumed him. He was right, he was addicted to the fight and to the excitement. And Sherlock had been a hit of it, sweeter than any morphine or drug on earth, and John was addicted.

"Welcome back," When John' phone beeps this time, he doesn't immediately check it, he's still breathless from the burning realization that he's back in the field. Not just a protector, but a fighter.

"Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson," and the man is gone, replaced by the inattentive blackberry user.

Beep.

Could be dangerous.

SH.

_'Oh god yes,'_ "Two two one B Baker Sstreet. But I need to stop off somewhere first,"

In a darkened apartment John checks the clip of his gun. Feeling the cold metal warm in his hands, John smiles, knowing that this is the first time in weeks that he's held it and not wanted to taste the copper sheathing of the bullets inside.

He was going to protect Himself, and Sherlock.

Charge.


	5. The Mind Palace

**A/N- So sorry for the long wait, and the short chapter .  
Between finals and certain other complications I've not been able to write much, but I did want to post something. So here is a bit of a tide-over. A Study In Pink should be finished in one or two more chapters. As always, reviews feed my soul and I love all my readers. **

* * *

Sherlock raced about the room, trying to outrun his mind. It was insisting on supplying him with the mental phantasm of possessing wings. He twitched and lurched as he paced, because every time he passed too close to a table or the lamp or the doorframe his spatial awareness surged and he was convinced he'd run into the object; no, he was convinced his _wings_ would knock into the object.

He flexed as the breathed, feeling them extend from his shoulders. It had been the same when he retrieved the case. Rooting through trash dumps and wriggling through small spaces felt even more claustrophobic than normal because he was stark convinced that he had bloody _wings_. The other hallucinations were helpful; he was delighted that he could literally follow the highlighted path of details that normally would take him some time to find, but now were glaring in phorescent glory.

Sherlock flopped onto the couch, springing back up in fright when a terrible pain laced through the air behind him. Eyes wide he whirled and gripped his hair tight, yanking his already tumbled curls as he tried to gulp down a deep breath.

"I CANNOT HAVE WINGS. WINGS I DO NOT HAVE CANNOT HURT. NOTHING IS THERE!" He shrieked at the couch, spitting the words into the air and watching in growing horror as the motes of dust caught in a shaft of sunlight and outlined his cries with a pleasant glitter.

Sherlock felt like he was being tugged apart at the seams, he was seeing too much, experiencing too much. It was all too much.

_His mind palace really was just that. An architectural colossus sprawling through his intellect, filled with rooms and facts and cases. Walking down the corridors Sherlock passed his past cases, giving them the barest flicker of interest. He was intent on his destination, intent on that bright blue door at the end of the southernmost wing. It was a sparkling blue, like the Caribbean Sea, with a wrought golden knocker shaped like an anchor and a widely grinning skull for a knob. Opening the door released a waft of salt air, the scent of fresh baked cookies, a lullaby drifting through the air, and oddly the sound of many, many people laughing. _

_Sherlock strode through the door, descending winding stairs covered in flowers and autumn leaves. Letters and cards, notes with childish handwriting and messages signed with lipstick scattered under his feet as he strode with purpose to the farthest corner of the dungeon. He passed decaying paintings of landscapes and what must have been hundreds of dim sunsets. Phonographs creaked wearily, struggling to play cracked records of bird song and music and kind voices with a shattered needle. _

_Guttering birthday candles cast frenzied shadows over a cobweb shrouded carousel horse, the enamel over its eyes cracked and flaking. He stepped over thousands of crumpled pictures of people smiling, stepped over movie ticket stubs and lecture notes with doodles in the margins. He stepped over deflated balls and broken children's toys. Always making his way deeper into the dark. _

_Finally Sherlock stood before a child's bed shaped like a ship. Its hull cradling a torn mattress in its splintering hold, covers hanging limp like sails caught in the doldrums. A rusted cutlass, small and nicked, hung from the broken spoke of the ship's wheel where a tattered teddy was wedged. _

_Raising the cutlass, Sherlock touched the edge tentatively and grimaced with determination as blood welled from his thumb. _

_Reaching behind himself, Sherlock began to hack at the wings. He cried out, stumbling, and blood coursed down his back like scalding fingers. _

_He continued cutting, screaming as the harsh blade scraped across bone and ink black feathers scattered around him. His mind blanked out, nothing but the pain registering as bloody feathers covered the floor. Sherlock sank to his knees sobbing, blood at the corner of his mouth. Still he cut, hacking and sawing at the wings till they splintered and fell away to leave him unbalanced and reeling. _

_Sherlock stumbled up the stairs, leaving a trail of blood and tears and feathers behind him. As soon as he fell through the blue door back into the halls of his mind palace proper the pain began to dissolve. Soon he could stand, breathe. Sherlock lifted a trembling hand a closed the blue door. _

_Retreat. Retreat… _

John burst through the doors of the flat in excitement only for his face to fall when he saw Sherlock laying prone on the couch with overblown eyes fixed on the ceiling. Gripping his lower arm, Sherlock seemed listless and intensely focused at the same time. Clenching and unclenching his fist, Sherlock doesn't even react to the obviously excited doctor.

"What are you doing?"

"Nicotine Patch," Obviously, "Helps me think," John is staring aghast at the three patches Sherlock clapped to his arm. A strange tingle ran over his skin under John's scrutiny, but Sherlock shrugged it off, "Impossible to maintain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work,"

For some reason the shorter man looked depressed at his inactivity, but Sherlock dismissed it as unimportant.

John is commenting but Sherlock barely listens. Ideas are forming in his brain and he knows that he's right on the precipice of a breakthrough.

"It's a three patch problem," Finally. Something interesting has happened. Now if he could just _think_. As John speaks to him a single thought rolls around his mind, slipping over cracks and divots until suddenly it fit neatly into a space.

_Yes. _That was it,

"Oh yeah, can I borrow your phone?"

"My phone?" Good god, this man must be thick.

"Don't want to use mine. Always a chance the number will be recognized. It's on the website,"

"Mrs. Hudson's got a phone,"

"Yes, she's downstairs. I tried shouting but she didn't hear,"

"I WAS on the other side of London,"

"There was no hurry," Sherlock had been in his mind palace for hours now, puzzling through the case. Curiously there had been two feathers, one black, one white, intertwined on the paths of his thoughts but he had coursed past them in his haste to understand this serial killer.

Stupid small talk. Sherlock couldn't imagine a more dull conversation than one about encountering Mycroft.

"These words exactly: 'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come',"

"You blacked out?"

"What? No! No," Stupid question.

This was foolish. Why couldn't John see what Sherlock was doing?

"Did I just text a murderer?"

The phone ringing was a triumphant sound to Sherlock, and he allowed himself a self-satisfied smirk.


	6. Healing Scars

**Chapter Six: John's POV. This is gonna be a long one, then just one more chapter I think to round out episode one. Since the series only has six episodes, this fic shouldn't be … that long, but give then chapter length of the previous, I think it's gonna be going for a while :D Which makes me happy. Thanks for everyone who's been following, reviewing, and favoriting this-it really means a lot to me! And the kind reviews :giggles: Keep 'em coming 'cause I grow ever more sexy and creative the more reviews I get! Mwahahaha. :ahem: On to the story. (and as a note, I am typing this in the passenger seat of a car, so… MOBILE FIC WRITING!)**

* * *

John switched his horrified stare from Sherlock, to the ringing phone in his hand, and back again.

"Did I just text a murderer?" That wasn't a hint of panic in his voice, to be sure. And that wasn't a curl of long missed adrenaline in his stomach. And his wings weren't quivering in excitement, sending little ripples into the air around him. Sherlock leaned forward, finally meeting John's eyes for a moment, but there was little to no electricity in the gaze. There was a hunger in Sherlock's eyes, yes, but it wasn't the same as earlier. It wasn't the same as that afternoon in the autopsy lab. Why wasn't it the same?

"A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just _found_ that phone they'd ignore a text like that, but the murderer… would panic." Decisive and triumphant, Sherlock leaps to his feet and readies to leave.

For some reason, his motions look disjointed to John, unbalanced. Nothing like the poetic grace from the earlier crime scene as Sherlock bounded down the stairs of the building.

For some reason, it hurt John's heart. Where was the emotion he'd felt before? Where was the magic, the thrilling electricity? Where was the connection? And why was Sherlock still talking to John, if they had no connection?

What if… what if John really was losing his mind, like his therapist seemed to think. What if he was so lost and alone that he was imagining feeling special. What if he was imagining the glorious golden wings that even now curled protectively around himself.

"Have you talked to the police?" John asked in a deadened voice.

"Four people are dead. There isn't time to talk to the police," Sherlock bounded back into the room as he slung his giant spidery arms into the sleeves of his great coat.

"So why are you talking to _me_?" Sherlock didn't seem to hear how painful the words were for John to ask. 'So why are you caring about me?' was what those words really asked, as John stared at the phone in his hand like he was still seeing those upside down words in his therapist's office. Why did Sherlock trust John? Why on EARTH did John trust Sherlock?

"Mrs Hudson took my skull," as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

"So I'm basically filling in for your skull?" John had been a fill in for worse things in his life. A father figure. A punching bag. A guilt trip. A conscious. A real doctor.

"Relax, you're doing fine," was that a joke?

"Well?"

"Well what?" John didn't know why he so desperately wanted this little human connection with this inhuman acting man. This man who jumped for joy over a serial killer, who's flat looked like the collected flats of every psychopath in London mixed with a liberal dose of crazy cat lady. This man who just hours ago had seemed like the center of John's universe but now seemed like a supermassive black hole, sucking everything in but leaving this terrifying and disjointing _gash_ of nothing instead of becoming more substantial. It was like looking at a yawning abyss when John looked at Sherlock now, instead of like looking in to an astronomic nursery of brilliance. The words were still there, but the magic had been stripped away to reveal something painful and terrifying.

"Well, you could just sit there and watch telly," Sherlock twitched like he was covering up an emotion.

"What, you want me to come with you?" Please say yes, please say yes.

"I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention, so…" John had to smile. For an instant this strange man sounded like a nervous kid asking someone to be their prom date, and trying to sound like the answer didn't matter much, "…Problem?"

"Yeah, Sergeant Donovan," John smiled more at Sherlock's exasperated expression. The longer he looked, the more John could see the still faint inkling of that queer purple veil around Sherlock. So the magic hadn't been stripped away completely… it was just hidden somehow. Maybe Sherlock understood this mental phenomenon better than John did and was pushing it away because he didn't want it.

"What about her?" Lord, he sounded like a peeved school child.

"She said… you get off on this. You enjoy it," Why did John feel like he was negotiating with the enemy? His finger tips tingled like he was prepared to shoot, his mouth a bit dry like he was fighting a dangerous fight.

"And I said 'dangerous' and here you are," Sherlock obviously thought he'd won with the remark. And like it or not, John knew he had.

Then Sherlock turned and raced out the door, and John could see his back fully for the first time.

And what he saw terrified him.

"Damn it!" John raced after his new flatmate, his new… something, looking down and seeing the droplets of blood that he knew only he could see.

John caught up to Sherlock on the curb outside the flat, his eyes glued to the snarled and gory mess that was Sherlock's back. Shattered bones protruded from his shoulder blades, looking like they'd been hacked apart with a trowel. The magnificent black and blue feathers were mangled and matted with blood that still dripped in the sluggish, rancid manner of congealing fluid. It was a horrific sight, and John's own wings ached along with his heart to see it. What had Sherlock done? What had happened? This was surely the reason the spark was gone, but WHY?

The more John looked, the more nauseous he felt until he noticed a faint whiff of smoke rising from the shoddily amputated appendages. It was like the smoke of some kind of incense; sparkling and almost substantial. It poured from each severed artery and vein into the air around Sherlock, creating a cocoon around the man's back.

'_they're healing_', John realized with a relief that almost caused his good leg to go out from under him.

"Where are we going?" he asked instead of giving in to the desire to card his fingers through that hazy air behind Sherlock.

"Northumberland Street's a five-minute walk from here,"

"You think he's stupid enough to go there?" John watched as the smoke seemed to outline the vascular system of wings, filling in where the hollow tubes of feather quills would be.

"No – I think he's _brilliant_ enough. I love the brilliant ones. They're always so desperate to get caught," Sherlock smiled as though he were congradulating the killer and the smoke twined faster into a proper shape.

"Why?"

"Appreciation! Applause! At long last the spotlight. That's the frailty of genius, John: it needs an audience!"

"Yeah," John could tell. If this wasn't preening. If this wasn't posturing then John had the entire male gender wrong.

_"_This is his hunting ground, right here in the heart of the city. Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go," Those magnificent hands framed Sherlock's face for emphasis, "Think! Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"

"Dunno. Who?" John once again marveled at the train of thought Sherlock could follow. The man thought in twisting passages that John didn't even know existed. How could one go from needing an audience to the killer needing to be faceless and unrecognizable in a crowd?

Sherlock shrugged, "Haven't the faintest. Hungry?"

They traipse over to a charming restaurant and Sherlock thanks the waiter for seating them, immediately discarding his coat and seemingly not noticing that the heavy fabric gets caught on the mangled nothing protruding from his back.

"Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Keep your eyes on it." The building is nondescript, nothing special at all, but John pins it with his most sever gaze nonetheless.

"He isn't just gonna ring the doorbell, though, is he? He'd need to be mad," Still he keeps looking.

Sherlock looked at him like he was explaining a clear point, "He _has_ killed four people,"

So maybe it was a clear point, "...Okay."

"Sherlock!" John is startled by the owner of the restaurant and his overly enthusiastic handshake with Sherlock, "Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free! On the house, for you _and_ for your date!"

Sherlock completely ignored the man and his menus, "Do you want to eat?"

John glared at the smiling man, "I'm not his date."

He was paid no attention, "This man got me off a murder charge!"

Sherlock finally inclined his head and introduced them, "Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking,"

Angelo looked to John like he was proclaiming diving help itself had interceded on his behalf, "He cleared my name,"

"I cleared it a _bit_. Anything happening opposite?" Sherlock steered the conversation away again.

"Nothing," Angelo fixes John with that strange bubbly stare again, "But for this man, I'd have gone to prison," It's almost like he's selling something.

"You _did_ go to prison,"

Angelo ignored Sherlock just as he'd ignored John's protest earlier, "I'll get a candle for the table. It's more romantic!"

"I'm not his date!" John fought down a blush that would have done nothing to underline his words as Sherlock dropped his menu without really studying it.

"You may as well eat. We might have a long wait,"

When Angelo returns with an obnoxiously happy smile and a goddamn tea-light, John thanks him with all the ire of an annoyed hedgehog and orders his meal.

John eats in silence for a while, thinking that even if the little Italian man was seeing attraction where there was none, he could cook a mean plate of pasta. When Sherlock's finger drumming becomes unbrearable, he takes a breath and says,

"People don't _have_ arch-enemies," Not his finest conversation starter, but it's all he can manage as he watches the smoke behind Sherlock solidify.

"I'm sorry?"

"In real life. There _are_ no arch-enemies in real life. Doesn't happen," He would know. He's been in the army long enough to have botched relationships, but arch-enemies? That was a bit melodramatic for the ex-army doctor who had suddenly sprouted wings spun from sunlight and gold.

"Doesn't it? Sounds a bit dull," Sherlock sounded like a scientist humoring a young-earth creationists theories.

"So who did I meet?" Who did Sherlock hate enough even though they professed 'concern', and had enough power to read his personal therapy session notes?

"What do real people have, then, in their 'real lives'?" Disinterested, Sherlock continued to gaze out the window.

John shrugged, "Friends; people they know; people they like; people they don't like ... Girlfriends, boyfriends…" He stopped suddenly, wondering if Sherlock had any of those and not liking the curl of nervousness in his stomach. A large bite of pasta quashed that troublesome feeling.

"Yes, well, as I was saying – dull,"

"You don't have a girlfriend, then?" Why on EARTH had he asked that? No. It was normal small talk, right? John hadn't been alone so long that he couldn't do small talk. Then why did he feel like he was hanging on the answer?

"Girlfriend? No, not really my area,"

John's heart flipped over for no real discernable reason and he covered it over with a non-commital noise that showed he'd heard Sherlock's answer. Then…

"Oh, right. D'you have a boyfriend?"

Maybe it's the odd tone in his voice that causes Sherlock's head to snap around and level him with a scrutinizing look, "Which is fine, by the way."

"I _know_ it's fine," almost acidic and the air around Sherlock warps with the sudden emotion.

"So you've got a boyfriend then?" John tries valiantly to save the conversation, wishing that the wings affixed to his back could actually hide his face as his tongue stumbles more words out.

"No,"

"Right. Okay. You're unattached. Like me," 'dear god John, shut UP' he thinks to himself, "Good,"

Sherlock mercifully turns back to the window, but then he starts, face pulling an odd expression and he begins to babble, "John, um ... I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any,"

John almost lunges across the table to interrupt that train of thought, wings snapping open behind him in alarm, "No! No, I'm not asking. No."

John takes a deep breath, and tries to throw the image of those destroyed wings toward Sherlock with his mind, coupled with what he'd felt earlier emanating from the man. Trying to say without words that he understood, "I'm just saying, it's _all_ fine," and god if he didn't sound like a self-help tape.

Sherlock looks at John for a long moment, then nods, but John has no way of knowing if he actually understands, "Good. Thank you,"

_"_Look across the street. Taxi." John twists around in his seat excitedly, food and the previous awkwardness thankfully forgotten.

"Stopped. Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out. Why a taxi? Oh, that's clever. _Is_ it clever? _Why_ is it clever?" Sherlock is obviously talking to himself now.

"That's him?"

"Don't stare."

"_You're_ staring!"

"We can't _both_ stare," It's strange how calm Sherlock's become. It's like he's even still the eddies and currents of the air between him and the man looking around in the taxi. Abruptly Sherlock gets to his feet and grabs his outerwear, walking toward the door with an easy, measured pace. John scrambles after him, forgetting his hated cane in the booth.

Suddenly, Sherlock is racing toward the cab, rolling over the bonnet of a car that almost slams into him. Adrenaline spiking in John's veins, he vaults over the car as well, at least dropping a semi-sincere apology as he feels the bonnet dent under his palm.

Panting, he pulls up next to Sherlock as the man watches the cab speed away,

"I've got the cab number?"

"Good for you," Sherlock mutters absently as he presses his fingertips to the sides of his head, concentrating hard. As he begins to mumble rapidly, the ethereal outline of those wings hardens and becomes almost solid, almost real. When Sherlock looks over at a man peaceably exiting a building, it's like electricity races along those outlines.

Once again John apologizes to the manhandled bloke before racing after Sherlock up those stairs. Sherlock's long limbs soon propel him far ahead of John onto a fire escape and he calls behind him, excited, "Come _on_, John!"

They reach the top of the stairs, and John feels exhilarated like he hasn't since the last time he'd seen active combat. Seeing Sherlock leap across the gap between buildings like a comic book detective, John's heart leaps into his throat, propelling him forward even as his body hesitates at the drop.

"Come _on_, John. We're losing him!"

Their mad dash through open air and across clanking fire escapes makes John feel like he's flying, feel like he's back in combat racing to get to an injured soldier. Except this is a heady sort of excitement he'd never had in the field; there, he'd always been worried over the injured and his fellow soldiers.

"Ah, no!" Sherlock growls and charges forward once they hit the ground, John wheels himself around to follow Sherlock instead of the taxi, his breath just starting to come hard.

They finally burst into traffic and intercept the cab, physically pounding into the cab and Sherlock pulls a police badge from… somewhere and flashes it at the driver_, "_Police! Open her up!"

Suddenly Sherlock stiffens with disgust, "No. Tan: what – Californian? L.A., Santa Monica. Just arrived,"

John gasps a little to get oxygen to his brain, "How can you _possibly _know that?"

"The luggage," Sherlock levels the scared man with a look, "It's probably your first trip to London, right, going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you?"

The man blinked, "Sorry – are you guys the police?"

Flashing the ID badge, Sherlock confirms and asks the man if he's alright then, "Welcome to London,"

"Basically just a cab that happened to slow down," John muses as he walks closer to Sherlock.

"Basically,"

"Not the murderer," This feels like he's won a prize or something and it makes him just a bit giddy.

"_Not_ the murderer, no," And to make it better, Sherlock sounds like he's pouting.

"Wrong country, good alibi,"

"As they go," Sherlock fiddles with the ID.

"Where… where did you get this?" he snags it from the detective, "Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

"Yeah, I pickpocket him when he's annoying. If you want, you can keep that one. I've got plenty at the flat,"

An odd feeling wells up in John's chest, filling him till he can't do anything but heave with barely suppressed giggles.

Sherlock eyes him, "What?"

"Nothing, just: "Welcome to London," more laughter.

A police officer is talking to the passenger of the cab, and Sherlock asks if John has gotten his wind back. John straightens, already preparing to run, and laughing the two race back to their flat. Not Sherlock's flat, John realizes as he runs, imagining his wings spread to catch the wind, but _their_ flat.

The two of them collapse against the wall just inside the door, chests heaving with exertion as well as effort to funnel air into their lungs.

John sighs, "Okay, that was ridiculous. That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done,"

With a grin, Sherlock agrees, "And you invaded Afghanistan," causing John to laugh harder.

"That wasn't just me!" Now Sherlock is laughing again.

A thought occurs to John as he slumps against the wall harder, "Why… aren't we back at the restaurant?"

Mirth draining away, Sherlock dismisses his question, "We're proving a point,"

John didn't like the sound of that, "What point?"

"You. Mrs Hudson! Doctor Watson _will_ take the room upstairs," Sherlock grins at John's indignant protest, "Says the man at the door!"  
When John opens the door, it's Angelo standing there smiling, "Sherlock texted me, he said you forgot this,"

"Ah." John stares at the cane Angelo is proffering at him, feeling a bit cold all over. His leg throbs as if on cue, but it doesn't feel like it's going to go out from under him. He just raced all over the damned city like hell was at his heels, and he'd done it all on his own power. He was standing tall without that god-damn cane.

_"_Er, thank you. Thank you,"

John closed the door with a shaking hand. It wasn't possible…

But Mrs. Hudson burst from her flat and clutched at Sherlock's arm, "Sherlock! What have you done?"

"Mrs. Hudson?" a look of actual tenderness and concern flickered across Sherlock's face and his eyes shot upward when Mrs. Hudson told him is a hushed voice,

"Upstairs,"

Lestrade was sitting in an armchair like it was a throne and his police officers were bustling around the flat like a hive of bees that had been kicked. Sherlock's entire demeanor changed in a second, "What are you doing?"

"Well," Lestrade shrugged as a crash echoed through the flat, "I know you'd find the case. I'm not stupid,"

Sherlock spat out, "You can't just break into my flat!" His body was rigid and he looked like he was on the verge of shouting.

"And you can't withhold evidence. And I _didn't _break into your flat,"

"Well," Sherlock snarled and waved his hand, "What do you call this then?"

"It's a drugs bust," Lestrade looked the picture of innocence and John felt the blood boil in his veins. He thrust himself around Sherlock to spit his words at Lestrade,

"Seriously?! _This_ guy, a junkie?! Have you _met_ him?!"

"John…" John doesn't notice Sherlock worriting his lower lip, nor does he see the air perceptivly darken around the man as he shuffles closer.

"I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational!" John is getting wound up now, feeling self-righteous fury welling up inside him for this… strange and irritating man that he's decided is his friend and flat mate now.

But Sherlock sounds like he's bitten a lemon, "John, you probably want to shut up _now_,"

"Yeah, but come on…" John looks into Sherlock's eyes, holding the gaze for long moments and John feels the cold truth radiate from that bottomless look, "…No."

Sherlock looks uncomfortable… ashamed even, "What?"

"_You?!_"

"Shut up!" Sherlock turns to Lestrade, "I'm not your… your sniffer dog!"

_"_No, Anderson's my sniffer dog," At least Lestrade doesn't sound cruel, just… like a kid who seldom gets his way and is relishing it. The Detective Inspector nods toward to the kitchen and Sherlock almost blanches.

"Anderson, what are _you_ doing here on a drugs bust?" The anger is back.

"Oh, I volunteered," Anderson looks far too gleeful… and far too cruel. John feels an ugly hate stir in his gut as Sherlock turns away, biting his lip again.

"They _all_ did They're not strictly speaking _on_ the drugs squad, but they're very keen,"

Donovan comes forward, holding a jar carelessly, "Are these _human_ eyes?"

"Put those BACK!" Sherlock sounds like a tormented child, and it nearly destroys John on the inside. Every instinct he has is telling him to throw these assholes out of their flat, because they're making Sherlock uncomfortable. Anyone can tell that this chaos is Sherlock's nest, his home, his comfort. From the skull to the violin to his 'experiments', this is Sherlock's refuge and they're just… _trampling _over it with no empathy.

"It stops being pretend if they find anything," There's a note of warning in Lestrade's voice.

"I _am_ clean!" Sherlock shouts it so everyone in the flat can hear.

"Is your flat? All of it?"

"I don't even smoke," Sherlock pulls up his sleeve to reveal his three patches, and for some reason John doesn't like the DI being able to see so much of Sherlock's skin. The patches… for some reason they seem intimate, personal.

"Neither do I," Lestrade reveals his own patch with kind eyes, and John realizes that even though Donovan and Anderson are there to torment Sherlock, Lestrade feels somewhat fond of the strange man, and really is trying to help, "So let's work together. We've found Rachel,"

"Who is she?"

"Jennifer Wilson's only daughter,"

"Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter's name? Why?"

"Never mind _that_. We found the case," Anderson preens as he points to the suitcase standing out glaringly pink in the living room, "According to _someone_, the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favourite psychopath,"

Before John can raise his hackles again, Sherlock is snarling, "I'm not a psychopath, Anderson. I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research,"

John considers that a moment, thinking about the words. Psychopath; a term he remembered from university psychology courses, just as he remembered sociopath. Psychopathy was less of a single mental state than the umbrella term for individuals with extremely antisocial behavior, diminished capacity for remorse, and very poor behavioral control. Sociopathy, on the other hand, was seldom used anymore. It connoted a person who manipulates others to get what they want, and one who cannot or will not consider the emotions of others.

John doesn't return to the conversation until he hears Lestrade say that Rachel was the poor woman's stillborn daughter.

Sherlock tried to explain his thinking to Anderson, "She didn't _think_ about her daughter. She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It took effort. It would have hurt,"

"You said that the victims all took the poison themselves, that he _makes_ them take it. Well, maybe he ... I don't know, talks to them? Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow," John could imagine pain like that being a very powerful tool against someone.

Sherlock frowns at him, "Yeah, but that was _ages_ ago. Why would she still be upset?"

There is dead silence in the room, and John stiffens, realizing that Sherlock's personal definition of himself may be a bit more accurate than he wants to believe.

"Not… good?" Sherlock asks him, as if he doesn't know what he's done, but knows that it was bad.

"_Bit_ not good, yeah,"

Sherlock shakes off the cringe, and rounds on John again, "Yeah, but if you were dying ... if you'd been murdered: in your very last few seconds what would you say?"

"Please, God, let me live." It hurts John to remember that moment, the last time when he thought he was really going to die. All his life flashing before his eyes, the pain, the noise and then the terrifying silence. The fear and confusion. _Please God, let me live_ was all he could think. He hadn't had anyone else to think about… just that he wanted to live.

Sherlock tuts at him, "Oh, use your imagination!"

Quietly, "I don't _have_ to,"

Maybe John might have though the coldcocked look that came over Sherlock's face as that mind pieced it all together was funny, but Sherlock recovered too quickly, "Yeah, but if you were clever, _really_ clever ... Jennifer Wilson running all those lovers: she _was_ clever. She was trying to _tell_ us something,"

"Isn't the doorbell working? Your taxi's here, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson startles everyone but Sherlock with her kind voice.

"I didn't order a taxi. Go away,"

_"_Oh, dear. They're making such a mess. What are they looking for?" She tuts.

"It's a drugs bust, Mrs Hudson," John supplies when he realizes Sherlock isn't going to answer.

"But they're just for my hip. They're herbal soothers," She really is a sweet woman.

"Shut up, everybody, shut up! Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe. I'm trying to think! Anderson, face the other way. You're putting me off," the smoke behind Sherlock has clearly gained some sort of solidness and John can see the wind coming from the misty looking flight feathers ruffling papers as he spins.

"What, my _face_ is?!" Anderson squawks from the kitchen.

"Everybody quiet and still. Anderson, turn your back," Lestrade shoots the man a look and with a grumble Anderson obeys.

"What about your taxi?" Mrs. Hudson tries, but Sherlock rounds on her as well and she flees down the stairs.

"Oh," That smile looks terrifying on Sherlock's face, "Ah! She was clever, clever, yes! She's cleverer than you lot and she's dead. Do you see, do you get it? She didn't _lose_ her phone, she never lost it. She _planted_ it on him. When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer.

"But how?"

"Wha...? What do you mean, how? Rachel!_" _Sherlock scowls at them all, "Don't you see? _Rachel!_ Oh, look at you lot. You're all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be _so_ relaxing. Rachel is not a name,"

Tired with the condescending monologue, John askes, "Then what IS it?"

"John, on the luggage, there's a label. E-mail address."

As Sherlock excitedly explains that the key to this case is in the lady's emails, which they've just been given the password to, John takes a moment to stand behind the man under the pretense of watching the phone screen. It's like standing in a shadow, but a welcoming one. He can still see the grotesque hackjob done to Sherlock's wings, but that fine smoke is obviously healing them bit by bit.

"Anderson, don't talk out loud. You lower the I.Q. of the whole street. We can do much more than just read her e-mails. It's a smartphone, it's got GPS, which means if you lose it you can locate it online. She's leading us directly to the man who killed her,"

"Unless he got rid of it," Lestrade points out.

"We know he didn't," _We. _John is already thinking in We. It had taken him all of basic training to think in 'We' with men he was supposed to keep alive at the cost of his own life, and little over hours since meeting this fallen angel of a man, John is thinking in permanent, frightening 'We'.

"Sherlock, dear. This taxi driver ..." Mrs. Hudson sounds anxious, but Sherlock pays her no mind. John takes his seat to watch the countdown to finding this bastard of a killer.

"We're gonna have to move fast. This phone battery won't last for ever," Sherlock points out.  
The map has loaded, the phone found, and John feels a slight but of Fear at the address, "Sherlock..."

"What is it? Quickly, where?"

_"_It's here. It's in two two one Baker Street," John's mouth is dry, he knows the killer is literally at their doorstep, though none of the cops seem to realize this. They think Sherlock could have _missed_ the phone. Sherlock, miss a bright pink (obviously) phone in his search of the case?

"Anyway, we texted him and he called back," John supplies, annoyed when Lestrade still asks his men to search for the phone. John can feel Sherlock's eyes on him, and he hears the man's voice filtering through his mind from earlier, 'Who do we trust, even if we don't know them?'

'Who passes unnoticed wherever they go?'

'Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?'

John thinks he's almost pieced it together as he watches the emotions play across Sherlock's face as the cab driver leaves after Mrs. Hudson, "Sherlock, you okay?"

"What? Yeah, yeah, I-I'm fine,"

"So, how can the phone be here?"

"Dunno,"

"I'll try it again," John offers, frightened by the look on Sherlock's face. It was one of dawning realization and it made him quake to his core.

"Good idea," Sherlock heads to the door.

"Where are _you_ going?" John isn't panicking. No, not one bit.

"Fresh air. Just popping outside for a moment. Won't be long," How John knows it's a lie, he can't explain.

_"_You sure you're all right?" Since when has a single person answered that truthfully?

Sherlock is hurrying down the stairs, "I'm fine,"

John knows he isn't.


	7. Wing Span

**A/N- Well, here it is. The final portion of Children of the Sun and Moon. Or, at least, the final portion of episode One of Sherlock. I may continue with this, but divorcing from the canon storyline, or this may be it. I suppose it depends on what you all :gestures: my Lovely Readers want. So drop me a review with your thoughts, comments, desires, and requests! **

* * *

Chapter Seven: Sherlock and John's POV

Sherlock's shoulders itched with the heady excitement. The CABBIE, of course. Who else on earth can be as faceless and unassuming as a bloody taxi cab driver? Every day people, himself included, climbed into a taxi and gave them their home address, the address of their lovers, family, place of work, and not a single person thought twice. What an incredibly… genius plan.

The cab driver looked askance at Sherlock, "Taxi for Sherlock 'olmes,"

"I didn't order a taxi," This was the man who'd almost outsmarted him? He looked like a caricature of a cabbie. The hat, the glasses, the snivel in the man's voice.

The Cabbie shrugged, "Doesn't mean you don't need one,"

Recognition flashed in Sherlock's mind, accompanied by a dull ache in his back. Perhaps lying prone on the sofa all day had been a bad idea, "You're the cabbie. The one who stopped outside Northumberland Street. It was _you_, not your passenger,"

"See? No-one ever thinks about the cabbie. It's like you're invisible. Just the back of an 'ead. Proper advantage for a serial killer," Oh good, at least this one had a personality.

"Is this a confession?" For some reason all Sherlock can think about is John upstairs in his flat. John asking him with the annoying expression of concern if he was alright. Why would John have thought he wasn't fine? …Why would John care? The case was on! Sherlock only had to play the game with this man for a little while longer then he would understand, understand how and why and what. Then he would return home to John. John?

"Oh, yeah. An' I'll tell you what else: if you call the coppers now, I won't run. I'll sit quiet and they can take me down, I promise," There was more. There had to be. Where was Sherlock's fun if the man just came quietly?

"Why?"

"'Cause you're not gonna do that,"

"Am I not?" _Why do I wish John had come with me?_

"I didn't kill those four people, Mr. 'olmes. I spoke to 'em ... and they killed themselves. An' if you get the coppers now, I promise you one thing_: I will never tell you what I said_,"

What would Jo-_Lestrade_ want him to do? "No-one else will die, though, and I believe they call that a result,"

"An' you won't ever understand how those people died. What kind of result do you care about?"

It was better than a dare, better than a gun to his head, "If I _wanted_ to understand, what would I do?"

The cabby turned and looked at him with rheumy eyes and a poor excuse for a smile, "Let me take you for a ride,"

That shouldn't be exciting, shouldn't cause his body to jolt, but it is, and does, "So you can kill me too?"

"I don't wanna kill you, Mr. 'olmes. I'm gonna talk to yer ... and then you're gonna kill yourself,"

For a second, Sherlock cannot hear over the rush of blood in his ears. _That'd be fine_, he thinks. His shoulders ache again and he disentangles himself from that train of thought. _No,_ that wasn't what he wanted. He wanted the thrill of the chase and the pleasure of figuring out a case… he didn't want to die. Sherlock gets into the cab, twitching when he thinks he's bumped his back against the door jam, but looking he sees his coat has escaped any smudging.

* * *

John feels nauseas, staring out the window as Sherlock climbs a little awkwardly into the cab. He can feel the wrongness in the big elbow joints of his wings, and for some reason it tastes like salt in his mouth. The phone in his hand is forgotten as the first wash of fear creeps up his neck. It doesn't make sense, surely Sherlock knows what he's doing, and surely Sherlock can take care of himself. The man wouldn't do something so stupid as to-

_Chop off his own wings-_

get into a cab with a serial killer.

"He just got in a cab," His voice is shaky, but he doesn't think the others have noticed. They don't even turn, "Its Sherlock, he just drove off in a cab,"

Donovan turned with a disgusted look on her face and it just served to ignite anger beneath John's fear, "I _told you_, he does that,"

John growled under his breath. Don't these idiots see the man they use to save their jobs? Do they just think of him as a convenient means to an end, and a punching bag they don't need to feel guilty for attacking?

As Donovan stalks away, carelessly moving through Sherlock's-their-home, John redials, "I'm calling the phone. It's ringing out,"

Lestrade sees the importance of that, "If it's ringing, it's not here,"

John can feel the knot forming deep in his throat, he's grasping at straws, "I'll try the search again,"

"Does it matter? Does _any_ of it? You know, he's just a lunatic, and he'll _always_ let you down, and you're wasting your time. _All_ our time,"

Lestrade levels her with a withering look so John doesn't have to, but he can feel his entire body reacting violently to her words. Feathers spread and puff out, his teeth are set on edge and grind ever so slightly and he can hear his mother scolding him in the back of his mind,

_'I paid a fortune for those teeth in braces, stop that!'_

Finally Lestrade turns away from her, "Okay, everybody. Done 'ere,"

* * *

Inside the cab, Sherlock and Jeff ride in silence. Sherlock tried to think, to figure out how the man had done it, but his mind kept spiraling back to his flat, and John inside it. It was _annoying_, his mind should be on the case, not a psychologically crippled ex-army doctor no doubt still trying in vain to piece together this mystery. It was _illogical_ that Sherlock, after a lifetime of being alone, should _crave _the presence of another human being-and one that he'd just met, to boot!

_'I don't have to,'_ His mind kept coming back to that. He'd known the man had been invalided home… but he'd almost died? His wounds were the serious? He'd stared down Death with that level headed, blue-eyed gaze? What were the circumstances? Had the idiot walked into a trap? Was he ambushed?

Had he been alone and frightened as he was about to die?

Sherlock's gut, and oddly his back, twisted in pain at the thought of John laying alone, watching his blood race for freedom. Didn't normal people think about their families and loved ones in their brushes with death?

Why had John just begged to live?

Why hadn't he called for his mother, his sister, his lover?

Was… Was John alo—

"How did you find me?" Sherlock wrenched his gaze away from the window and focused it on the reflection of Jeff's eyes in the rearview.

"Oh, I recognized yer, soon as I saw you chasing my cab. Sherlock 'Olmes! I was warned about you," it was sly, told in confidence. They were sharing a secret now, "I've been on your website too, brilliant stuff! Loved it!"

_'At least someone appreciates tobacco ash… too bad it had to be a serial killer,'_

"Who… warned you about me?"

"Just someone out there who's noticed you…" Coy…

"Who?" The man's veins throb oddly under his skin. Grandchildren smile from the dashboard. Sherlock felt an aberrant spike of sorrow. This man may be a serial killer, may be a murderer, may be a 'bad man', but he had a family that loved him and his death was coming too fast for him to accept it.

Sherlock leaned back into his seat again and shed the sympathetic thoughts, annoyed to have even had them. Those were something Mrs. Hudson would have thought, or Lestrade. Or John, perhaps,

"Who would notice _me_?"

They meet eyes briefly, and Sherlock marvels at how… dull the little man before him seems. There's no spark in those eyes, no keep cunning intellect. Sure, he was clever… but Sherlock wants more. He wanted this to be an exemplary case, one for the books, one that he would remember in his old age.

"You're too modest, Mr. 'olmes,"

Sherlock holds in his scoff, but there's a glimmer of light that erupts in the corner of his eyes at the thought,

"I'm really not,"

"Well, you've got yourself a fan,"

It _shouldn't_ please Sherlock to hear that, but some part of him, deep down, buried beneath all the layers of attitude and cold indifference wants so badly to…

Sherlock shrugs away from that train of thought. He doesn't need outside validation. He pursues these cases to please himself. He's married to his work. He doesn't need a fan club.

_'Then why was I so pleased when John said I was amazing?'_ Sherlock shifts and frowns a bit, sitting back in his seat, "Tell me more,"

"That's all you're gonna know… in this lifetime," All of Sherlock's hopes were being dashed to pieces. He'd come with this man alone in hopes of a _challenge_, of entertainment. Not to be… teased by a melodramatic cabbie.

Sherlock wished he were back in the flat with…

* * *

Lestrade broke the silence first, "Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?"

Echoing the concerns spiraling in John's head, the DI startles him, causing his wings to flare open and him to jump a bit. But Lestrade doesn't acknowledge the flood of light into the room, nor the brilliant purple trail of smoke it illuminated.

John shrugged, distracted by the smoke as it hung in the air, bending and twirling, reaching out to twine around his hands and wings like an insistent cat.

"You know him better than I do…" _'How could you not see how he's tried to destroy himself though?'_ There's a feeling of anger lurking beneath John's amazement. He's disappointed in the people surrounding the dark angel that was Sherlock, disappointed that they choose to turn their venomous words on a man who's done nothing other than be different and brilliant.

"I've known him for five years, and no, I don't,"

"So why do you put up with him?" At least Lestrade seemed to care, seemed to realize that Sherlock wasn't some dangerous curiosity to poke and prod.

Real emotion now, "Because I'm desperate, that's why,"

Lestrade turns to leave, striding through the thick purple smoke, one hand trailing through it and fingers flexing like he sensed something was there, "And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a _good _one,"

His words hang in the air, turning, glittering. They swivel and catch the sunlight filtering through John's feathers, looming in the air until it's all John can do to breathe.

He has to find Sherlock-NOW.

* * *

"Where are we?" Sherlock doesn't understand the sudden gravitation he feels in the direction of his home, but the twisting feeling in the pit of his stomach leaves him feeling uneasy.

"You know every street in London. You know exactly where we are,"

"Roland-Kerr Further Education College. Why here?" It's infuriating. He should be reveling in the closing of this case, he should be concentrating on the how, not thinking about _John_.

"It's open; cleaners are in. One thing about being a cabbie: you always know a nice quiet spot for a murder. I'm surprised more of us don't branch out,"

"And you just walk your victims in? How?"

It takes every ounce of Sherlock's willpower to not burst out laughing. The gun is a dull slag of plastic. A lighter? It's _ridiculous_ but close enough to have scared Jeff's other victims. But not Sherlock; he can see the cracks in the paint around the muzzle from where the fire has dried the plastic out. Though he pretends to believe it's a real gun, after all, he does have to play along to see if this is worth it.

"Oh, dull," Well, not play _along_ but you know.

"Don't worry, it gets better,"

"You can't make people take their own lives at gunpoint,"

"I don't. It's much better than that!" Sherlock watches him lower the 'gun', and feels disgusted, knowing that he's going to follow without a thought. It infuriates him. This Cabbie knows that his only weakness is in the _knowing_ and if he doesn't follow… he'll never understand.

Exiting the cab, Sherlock rolls his shoulders and straightens his jacket.

* * *

'_Damn this leg,'_ John paces the apartment, furious that his gate is even and measured. _Furious_ that he can walk without that embarrassing cane currently placed haphazardly atop boxes of papers. Ever since he was released from the vet hospital, he's needed that cane to walk steadily. Now, he can run across London chasing _cabs_ in tow of a lunatic in a greatcoat. The same lunatic he's currently out of his mind with worry over.

The ping of the computer makes every feather in John's wings and every hair on his body stand straight up. His breath catches and he practically flings himself atop the laptop, grabbing it even as he memorizes the address. He lurches out the door, following the thin trail of purple smoke as much as he's heading toward the address on the computer.

* * *

Sherlock accepts Jeff's courtesy and enters the dreary room first, flinching as the deplorable little man walks into his personal space at his back. Jeff's presence almost physically pains him; a disappointment, and now a tedious chore with the tantalizing promise of 'why' at the end, but made all the more disgusting because-

_'John isn't here,'_

No, because Sherlock isn't even sure it's worth his time anymore. A Cabbie murdering people because of a heart condition and grandchildren, not even bothering to use a real gun… it all seemed rather pathetic. Why would John's absence be like missing a torch on a camping trip?

"Well, what do you think?" Jeff is _proud_ of this… squalor, and it makes Sherlock even more apathetic, itching idly at his left shoulder. The room is dark, dank, the plastic chairs leeching all the romance out of the setting.

"It's up to you, you're the one who's gonna die 'here,"

And people called Sherlock melodramatic.

"No, I'm not,"

"That's what they all say," Sherlock wants to turn and call Lestrade after all, but turning back now would be giving up. And Sherlock was damned if he was going to let this toadish little man win.

Talk. Talk him to death. Well, so far so good, because Sherlock was _bored_. He had witnesses, Mrs. Hudson would no doubt be able to remember the slightest detail of the strange and insistent cabbie; as older women were oft wont to do. And an entire department of police officers, not to mention John, would surely be able to figure out that he'd not gone off on a whim.

Sherlock's entire world narrowed down to the two small glass vials Jeff pulled from his pockets. They were identical. No distinguishing marks that a normal person would be able to pick up on. The pills inside too were for all intents and purposes identical.

_It was a bloody game. _There was no clever plot, not a single ounce of skill. A GAME had dragged him across London and away from the first friend he'd made in years. Sherlock was livid. He could barely contain himself, every ounce of self-control he could muster went into schooling his face and voice into the correct level of apathy he hoped would infuriate Jeff as well.

And _listen _to him talk! He thought he was the king of clever, "weren't expecting that, were yer? Ooh, you're going to love this,"

"Love, what?"

"Sherlock 'olmes. Look at you! 'Ere in the flesh. That website of yours: your fan told me about it," Sherlock itched to slap that look off the man's face. His back ached with disappointment and a desire to go _home_.

"My fan?"

"You're brilliant, you are. A proper Genius. "The Science of Deduction." Now, that is _proper_ thinking. Between you and me sitting 'ere, why can't people think,"

Sherlock wants to scoff, he really does. This man thinks his heavy handed, _sledge hammer_ approach to murder made him a genius. Made him on level with Sherlock. Jeff wasn't even on level with Anderson.

"Don't it make you mad? Why can't people just _think_?" The man wants something from Sherlock, some type of reaction. He's loathe to give it to him, but if it'll make this terrible night go any faster…

"Oh, _I_ see. So you're a proper genius _too_,"

Jeff missed the sarcasm completely.

"Don't look it, do I? Funny little man drivin' a cab. But you'll know better in a minute. Chances are it'll be the last thing you _ever_ know,"

All the while Jeff was explaining his 'game', Sherlock studied the bottles. They were home filled, generic little capsules the homeopathic believers purchased at the whole foods stores. Nothing was distinguishing about either capsule, which meant that Jeff had to keep track by which pocket they were stored in. Risky. Stupid. Sherlock's shoulders itched, and he started to grin when Jeff told him he'd be taking whichever pill Sherlock didn't choose.

But one thing still bothered him, "It's not a _game_. It's _chance_,"

Jeff leveled him with a completely undeserved condescending stare, "I've played four times. I'm alive. It's not chance, Mr. 'olmes, its chess. It's a game of chess, with one move, and one survivor. And this ... _this_ ... is the move,"

That opening move left a trail of sparks in Sherlock's vision, making his breath catch in his throat. There it was, _there_ was the excitement. It was a move taken straight from a movie, and was simply recursive 'if, then' guesses into infinity. But it was _interesting_.

* * *

John watched that trail of elusive purple smoke through the front window of the cab like a hawk, watching it weave through buildings that he had to travel around. He wished the wings in his imagination were real, because then he could fly straight to Sherlock and the murderer and lay a taste of good old England's Hell on the scoundrel. He might even punch the criminal too.

* * *

"Everyone's stupid. Even you," Sherlock wanted to box the man's ears, talking like a savant when he was just some puppet with his strings pulled by Sherlock's _'fan'_. Jeff wasn't a genius. He had a play book, a script, and he was following it so well even he had started to believe in the farce. It was a waste of Sherlock's time but…

The colors of those pill bottles had changed. They were bright and new, sparkling in the dull room they were in. A siren's song, that's what it was, a siren's song to his _bored_ brain. He was so bored that even a fifty-fifty chance was tantalizing.

"Either way, you're _wasted_ as a cabbie," Jeff laughed, but Sherlock just wanted to see him choke.

John jumped out of the cab at the Roland-Kerr College, hurriedly tossing money at the cabbie with no small shiver of worry. Sherlock's smoke has diffused in the air until he cannot tell which building it's coming from. Even as he charged into the one on the left, his wings told him he was cutting his time close.

_"_So, you risked your life four times just to kill strangers. Why?"

"Time to play,"

"Oh, I _am_ playing. This is _my_ turn. There's shaving foam behind your left ear. Nobody's pointed it out to you. Traces of where it's happened before, so obviously you live on your own; there's no-one to tell you. But there's a photograph of children. The children's mother has been cut out of the picture. If she'd died, she'd still be there. The photograph's old but the frame's new. You think of your children but you don't get to see them. Estranged father. She took the kids, but you still love them and it _still_ hurts," Sherlock feels triumph when a flash of pain ripples through Jeff's face, "Ah, but there's more. Your clothes: recently laundered but everything you're wearing's at least ... three years old? Keeping up appearances but not planning ahead. And here you are on a kamikaze murder spree. What's _that_ about? Ahh. Three years ago – is that when they told you?"

He's got Jeff now, "Told me what?"

In brilliant shimmering lights above the man's head, like a word written in the night air by a child with a sparkler, in a shower of celestial ribbons the word 'Dying' appears.

"That you're a dead man walking,"

"So are you,"

"You don't have long though. Am I right?"

It's like twisting a knife into his subject, and Sherlock smiles.

"Aneurism," Jeff taps his head, "Right here. Any breath could be my last,"

"And because you're dying, you've just murdered four people,"

"I've _outlived_ four people. That's the most fun you can _'ave_ on an aneurism,"

There's a shimmer of a lie across Jeff's face, "No. No, there's something else. You didn't just kill four people because you're bitter. Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator. Somehow this is about your children,"

The light in the room is gathering around a single bottle. But is it the right bottle?

* * *

John runs like he hasn't since deployment, "SHERLOCK?"

Door after door opens to empty rooms, "SHERLOCK!"

* * *

"What if I don't choose either? I _could_ just walk out of here,"

He's tired of this farce, and begins to force Jeff's hand. The gun is a fake, time for the man to come clean about that at least.

"I know a real gun when I see one,"

Almost like he's pouting, Jeff puts the gun away, "None of the others did,"

"Clearly. Well, this has been _very_ interesting. I look forward to the court case," Sherlock is up, striding to the door. He's not stupid enough to risk his life on _pure chance_. If there had been some way other than to guess, he would have chewed through his pill an hour ago. But to waste his life on a madman and his keeper?

"Just before you go, did you figure it out ... which one's the good bottle?"

Sherlock froze at the door, bristling, "Of course. Child's play,"

"Well, which one, then?"

"Which one would you 'ave picked, just so I know whether I could have beaten you? Come on. Play the game,"

It's a challenge, a dare, and an insult all in one. And Sherlock isn't strong enough to ignore any part of it. He sweeps back to the table, gripping the bottle that's glowing the brightest in his mind and continues to the other end of the table.

_"_Oh. Interesting," Jeff plucks the other bottle up as Sherlock studies his.

* * *

The purple smoke John is chasing has begun to scream with a high pitched sound, so like the emergency air raid sirens that had stolen his sleep during the war. Like the sound of a bomb falling through the air. The sound of a mine as the pressure pad was tripped. A steady pulse of white flooded through it, wrapping around John and fairly dragging him into an empty room. The light flowed against the outer wall, and filled a room in the opposite building.

* * *

Jeff is fiddling with his own pill, "So what d'you think? Shall we? _Really_, what do you think? Can you beat me? Are you clever enough to bet your life?"

* * *

Across the way, John watches in mute horror as Sherlock opens the pill bottle.

"_SHERLOCK_!"

* * *

"I bet you get bored, don't you? I _know_ you do. A man like you ... so clever. But what's the point of being clever if you can't prove it? Still the addict. But this ... _this_ is what you're really addicted to, innit? You'd do anything ... anything at... to stop being bored. You're not bored now, are you? Innit good?"

Just as the pill capsule touches Sherlock's lower lip a shot rings out, tracing a searing arc through Sherlock's vision as it buries itself in Jeff's chest. He can see the sharp indigo of his surprise, and the green after image of the trail the bullet took through the air. The pill tumbles from Sherlock's stiff fingers and clatters away into the gloom, no longer glowing nor interesting to him.

The room across from theirs is empty, the window open, but it's still filled with a brilliant golden light. Sherlock wants to leap across right now, rush into that glow, find who caused it; who saved his life, because he knows know that he was….

"Was I right? I was, wasn't I? Did I get it right?" When Jeff just gurgles on his own blood Sherlock chucks the pill into the shadows. His eyes are still filled with the brilliance of the light from across the way, and he hates this shadowy little cockroach bleeding out on the ground.

"Okay, tell me this: your sponsor. Who was it? The one who told you about me – my 'fan'. I want a name,"

"No,"

Sherlock sees red, but its rage filling his mind. Rage at being toyed with and now cheated of his prize, "You're dying, but there's still time to hurt you. Give me a name,"

Sherlock grinds his heel into Jeff's shoulder, feeling a rush of cruel pleasure as the blood wells faster, "A _name._ _Now,"_

Still Jeff bites his tongue, until Sherlock leans his full weight on him, "The _NAME!_"

"MORIARTY!" And just like that, the stupid little cabby with grand puppet strings is dead.

* * *

Later Sherlock is hunched on the back step of an ambulance, growling at a poor paramedic who's just trying to give him an orange shock blanket.

"Why have I got this blanket? They keep putting a blanket on me!"

Lestrade smiles at him and shrugs, "Yeah, it's for shock,"

"I'm not _in_ shock," If anything Sherlock feels the best he's felt in ages. He feels like a weight is draped across his back, under the blanket, much like his scarves had felt at graduation. Almost like a protective heat was attached at his shoulder blades just below the skin. It was irritating, but he found he… liked the feeling.

"Yeah, but some of the guys wanna take photographs," Lestrade grins at Sherlock's mock-pained expression.

"So, the shooter? No sign?"

"Cleared out before we got 'ere, but a guy like that would have had enemies I suppose. One of them could have been following him but…," Lestrade shrugged again, obviously not concerned, "Got nothing to go on,"

It's an invitation and Sherlock knows it, "Oh, I wouldn't say that,"

Lestrade pulls out his notebook, "Okay, gimme,"

Standing up, Sherlock begins to talk, each word making the heat along his shoulder blades grow and pulse, "The bullet they just dug out of the wall's from a hand gun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon – that's a crack shot you're looking for, but not just a marksman; a fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatized to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service ...,"

Sherlock turns his head, scoping the crowd that had gathered to watch and he spots John standing at easy parade rest behind the police tape, "…and… nerves of… of steel…"

Fireworks explode behind his eyes. The night is blooming into colors he hasn't ever seen before. As people pass, Sherlock can see the waves in the air they cause, see the hairs fall from their clothing, hear their laughter. The moon is suddenly ten feet away and _insistent__ly_ tugging at his heart, his lungs, he can even feel his liver shift as the ground under his feet jerks to the left.

Great, huge, _immense_ feathered wings unfurl behind him and Sherlock is left gasping, staggering on the inside, feeling the muscles that weren't there a minute ago flex. A blue door in his mind palace has been burst open, has been blown off the bloody hinges. The mad dash across the city floods back into his mind. The feeling of gravity and orbit fills his inner ears. Sherlock can smell the fire and plasma coming from John Watson, and more-so, he can see the gigantic golden wings arching around the little Ex-Army Doctor too.

John standing there, unassuming and innocent, but anyone who could see those wings would be able to see it, see what John had done. There are scars on them, like a splash of quicksilver across the inside of the flight feathers. They arch up into the night sky, shedding light around John, feathers splayed like a territorial display of power, and John looks _terrifying. A glorious, fiery angel of justice._

Sherlock's mind spiraled back into him and he turned with a lurch as the wings on his back flexed, "Actually, do you know what? Ignore me,"

Lestrade chokes, "Sorry?"

"Ignore all of that. It's just the, er, the shock talking," Sherlock begins to walk toward John, his feathers combing the air behind him.

"Sherlock? Where are you going?"

"I just need to talk about the-," _the fact we have _wings, "the rent,"

"But I've still got questions for you!"

"Oh, what _now_? I'm in shock! Look, I've got a blanket!" Sherlock brandishes the blanket at Lestrade emphatically, feeling his own wings arch up over his head and seeing the purple shadow cover Lestrade's face.

"Sherlock!"

"And I _did_ just catch you a serial killer! …More or less!"

Lestrade stops, eyes boring into him for a moment, and Sherlock sees him decide to ignore this fit of pique.

"Okay, we'll bring you in tomorrow sometime. Off you go,"

Sherlock walks, almost runs, to John, pitching that ghastly blanket into Donovan's squad car and then ducks under the tap, cringing as it grazes his feathers.

"Um, Sergeant Donovan's just been explaining everything. The two pills. Been a dreadful business hasn't it? Dreadful," John is looking not at him, but behind him, tracing the curve of Sherlock's wings with a look of… relief on his face?

The realization douses over Sherlock like ice water. _'John knew from the beginning,'_

"Good shot,"

John's flight feathers spread wider as he tries and just _fails _at looking innocent, "Yes. Yes, must have been, through that window,"

"Well, _you'd_ know," _'We have wings,'_ "Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case," John clears his throat and blushes a bit, "Are you alright?"

_'You can see them,"_

"Yes, of course I'm all right,"

_'Yes, I can,'_

"Well, you _have _just killed a man,"

_'We have wings,'_

"Yes, I ..." John trails off, "That's true, innit?"

This little man seems to be taking the knowledge that he and another man have just sprouted massive _wings_ in stride like it's nothing.

"But he wasn't a very _nice_ man,"

_'We have wings,'_

"No. No, he wasn't really, was he?"

"And frankly a bloody awful cabbie,"

_'Is this okay?'_

"That's true. He _was_ a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took us to get here,"

They both start to giggle, and John gasps out, "Stop! Stop, we can't giggle, it's a crime scene! Stop it!"

"You're the one who shot him. Don't blame me,"

"Keep your voice down!" John slaps at his arm, but when his hand is stopped by dark feathers and the electricity runs up his arm he stumbles, recovering when he saw Donovan looking at them darkly.

"Sorry – it's just, um, nerves, I think,"

Sherlock curved one of his wings protectively around John, keeping it between them and Donovan, "Sorry,"

John watches it curl around them and clears his throat, "You were gonna take that damned pill, weren't you?"

"Course I wasn't. Biding my time. Knew you'd turn up,"

"No you didn't. It's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever,"

"Why would I do that?" _'Is this okay?'_

* * *

John smiled and pressed his wingtip to Sherlock's in a peaceful, pleasant… loyal motion, "Because you're an idiot," _'Yeah, it's okay,'_

Sherlock works hard to school his smile back to something acceptable. He's found someone who… understands him. The sun to his moon.

"Dinner?"

"Starving,"

Epilogue

As they're walking away John slaps Sherlock's arm again, "Sherlock. That's him. That's the man I was talking to you about,"

There's a halo of yellow around the man's head as he exits his expensive car.

"I know _exactly_ who that is,"

"So, another case cracked. How very public spirited ... though that's never really your motivation, is it?"

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock's entire manner has changed into something akin to childish annoyance.

"As ever, I'm concerned about you,"

Sherlock motioned toward John, "Yes, I've been hearing about your 'concern'."

The man tuts, "Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?"

"Oddly enough, no!"

Now John is entirely confused. There are millions of connections from Sherlock to this suited man with his fleshy face. The ones from the man to Sherlock were indeed warm, but mid-way the colors changed to something more bitter.

"We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer ... and you know how it always upset Mummy,"

Sherlock squawked, feathers ruffling, "_I_ upset her? Me? It wasn't _me_ that upset her, Mycroft!"

John pushed forward No, no, wait. Mummy? Who's Mummy?"

Sherlock glared at Mycroft, "Mother – our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft," as John's brain restarted, Sherlock spat another quip at his brother, "Putting on weight again?"

"Losing it, in fact," came the stiff reply.

"He's your _brother_?!" _Wings_ John could handle, but not older brothers who kidnapped the potential roommates of their family members, it seemed.

"Of _course_ he's my brother,"

"So he's not ..." John felt his wings wilt.

"Not what?" Sherlock and Mycroft both _look_ at John.

"I dunno-criminal mastermind?"

"Close enough," Sherlock chuckles.

"For goodness sake!" Mycroft huffed, "I occupy a minor position in the British government,"

"He _is_ the British government, when he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis," Mycroft sighed but Sherlock forged ahead, "Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does for the traffic,"

John moves to follow Sherlock, but pauses, turning back to Mycroft, "So, when-when you say you're concerned about him, you actually _are_ concerned?"

"Yes, of course,"

"I mean… it actually _is_ a childish feud?"

Mycroft is watching his brother with a barely concealed look of fondness, "He's always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners,"

"Yeah…no, GOD no!" John turns to follow Sherlock again, "I-I'd better um..." Anthea is standing next to the car, "Hello again,"

She blinks owlishly at him, "Hello,"

"Yes, we-we met earlier on this evening,"

"Oh..?"

"Okay, good night," This girl doesn't have the same halo of light around her as Sherlock. Neither did Lestrade, or the killer, or even Mycroft. None of them have wings.

It's just him… and Sherlock.


End file.
